


Milk and French Toast

by Cdelphiki



Series: In For a Pound [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Kid Jason Todd, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cdelphiki/pseuds/Cdelphiki
Summary: During a vacation to New York City, Bruce relishes the opportunity to spend a peaceful morning with Jason and Damian, without supervillains ruining everything. All it leads to is Bruce realizing what a little shit Jason is, especially when it comes to pestering his brother.Happens duringPrecedent, between chapter 24 and 25.  It's like a bonus chapter, that was cut for not furthering the plot.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: In For a Pound [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1334581
Comments: 46
Kudos: 544





	Milk and French Toast

Bruce rarely took vacations.

Realistically, he knew why that was the case. There was far too much to do to be able to take breaks. If it wasn’t a new serial killer in Gotham, or the Joker escaped _again,_ or whatever other random catastrophe happened every other week, it was something with the League. Alien invasions. Asteroids headed towards Earth. Rogue members. Bruce dealt with the whole gamut. 

Every single week.

There just wasn’t much time between events for real, actual vacations.

But when he _did_ take them, he was always reminded about how much he loved them.

He was fortunate enough that Lucius basically ran WE, so he at least had plenty of time during the day to spend with his kids. They were his break, sometimes. 

Spending a quiet morning with Jason, going through school work or simply existing in the same space was relaxing, after all. Lazy afternoons with Damian. Taking them to the mall or the park. Game nights and movies. It was enough downtime and relaxation for him that he didn’t go absolutely insane with his lack of vacations

But he had to admit. Actual vacations were definitely better. 

At least, that’s what he was thinking that morning, when he woke up in a beautiful hotel suite with Damian still fast asleep, right beside him. 

The suite was plenty big enough for each of them to have their own beds. Bruce had specifically chosen one with two bedrooms, after all. One for the kids and one for him. Damian had spent all of two hours in his own bed before his socked feet could be heard, padding across the living room and slipping inside Bruce’s room. A second later, Bruce had felt the bed dip, ever so slightly, where Damian climbed up and over to where Bruce was. 

“Mr. Cow had a bad dream,” Damian had said, with a shy little smile on his face. The one he used when he knew he was about to get what he wanted, regardless of what he said. 

Because of course he was. Bruce was such a push over, as Dick had always said. Besides, why would Bruce _want_ to kick Damian out and back to his bed?

“Did he now?” Bruce asked, looking at the toy cow in question, which Damian had held up for Bruce to examine, “Did you tell him it’s just a dream and there’s no reason to be scared?”

“He’s not scared, he just wants to sleep in here anyway.” 

With a quiet laugh, Bruce pulled the blanket out from under Damian and helped him get snuggled down under it. “All right, and since I know he can’t sleep without you, I guess you can stay, too.” 

Moments like that… 

Time was fleeting. Bruce wished he could hit pause. Slow down the aging process. Revel in his children for longer. 

But that’s not how time worked, and it’s not how kids worked. So when Bruce woke, he enjoyed the first hour of his vacation staring at Damian’s sleeping face, marveling in his son’s presence and peace. 

The quiet, beautiful peace didn’t last, of course. 

Jason stirred around 7, and once the boy had gotten himself up and was taking a shower, Bruce figured he might as well get going, too. 

When he stepped down out of bed, he was painfully reminded of his hurt ankle, and silently cursed at himself for not being more careful. Maybe had he not put his entire weight on the injured ankle, he wouldn’t have made it start hurting so early in the day. 

But, alas. He ended up using his crutches. Alfred would be happy, at least. 

Once he was showered and dressed for the day, Bruce finally woke Damian and got him moving. 

“Dad no,” Damian whined, when Bruce ran his hand through his hair and told him it was time to wake up. 

“Dad yes,” Bruce repeated back at him, “Come on, buddy. Get up. Brush your teeth. Get dressed. I’ll order us breakfast, okay?”

“I want to sleep forever,” Damian mumbled, but when it looked like he _was_ on his way to getting up, Bruce stepped out of the bedroom and joined Jason in the living room.

“How’d you sleep, kiddo,” he asked, as he sat down on the couch with the room service menu in hand.

Jason shifted where he was sitting on the couch, now next to Bruce, and pulled his legs up to sit criss-cross. “Good,” he said, a content little smile on his face, “Even better when Damian quit snoring and moved to your room.”

“Damian doesn’t snore.” 

“You probably can’t hear him over _your_ snoring.” Jason grinned cheekily at that, and his happy-upbeat mood was extremely infectious. Bruce couldn’t help but return his smile.

Even if Jason was being a major brat. 

“I don’t snore.”

“Yes you do,” Jason shot back, “I could hear you all the way from my room!”

Bruce snorted and rolled his eyes fondly. He did _not_ snore. He was absolutely sure _someone_ would have told him if he did, _long_ before then. 

Looking back at the room service menu, Bruce asked, “What do you want for breakfast?”

“What are the options?” Jason asked, scooting over, closer to Bruce as he snatched the menu right out of Bruce’s hands. “Hm. Oh, weird. What’s ‘pain perdu?’” 

“French toast,” he replied. The menu was in a mix of French and English. It seemed ridiculous to call simple, basic meals something _other_ than their common names in English, but Bruce supposed it was a 5 star hotel. Restaurants and hotels like that tended to try to make _everything_ seem fancier than it actually was.

“Hm. I wonder if they can compare to Alfred’s french toast. I _love_ his french toast. What’s brioche? Are they _really_ charging eight dollars for _one single egg?”_

Bruce snagged the menu from Jason’s hand, laughing at the pure outrage in his voice. He also _loved_ that Jason was comfortable enough to shoot questions at him rapid fire.

He looked down at the menu, and saw where there really was a single egg listed as a side, for eight dollars. He was _pretty_ sure he could buy a dozen eggs at the store for less than two dollars, so he definitely saw Jason’s point. “It says it’s organic.”

“The _fuck_ does that even mean?” 

Bruce… didn’t really know. But he also didn’t care about the price. “They charge a lot because they use the money to pay the chef _and_ the people who bring the food to our room. It’s okay.” 

“I guess,” Jason said, frowning a little. 

“Brioche is a type of bread,” Bruce said, turning the conversation back to what they should order, “Do you want French Toast?”

“No. I’d rather have eggs.”

“I can get both.” 

Jason grimaced, and Bruce could tell it wasn’t because he _didn’t_ want French Toast, but because he _did,_ but had seen the $32 price under it. Jason was funny about spending money, but he had been getting remarkably better. 

Donating double what he spent to Jason’s charity certainly had been helping. 

When Jason shrugged, Bruce took it as confirmation that he _did_ want French Toast.

In the end, Bruce ordered a whole spread off the menu. French Toast. Cheese omelettes, because that was Damian’s favorite. And then some yogurt, fruit, and some drinks, including a nice hot cup of coffee for himself. Jason sat through Bruce ordering it all on the phone, looking mildly sick as he was likely calculating up the cost, but didn’t say anything. 

He recovered, though, a minute or so after Bruce hung up the phone. “Is this French?” he asked, looking back down at the menu Bruce had sat down on the coffee table.

“Yeah.” 

Nodding, Jason looked it over again and declared, “I want to learn French.” 

“So you can read a room service menu?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow. Jason hadn’t expressed interest in foreign languages yet. 

“ _No,”_ Jason said, rolling his eyes, “So I can speak French.”

“Okay.” Bruce laughed, and reached over to ruffle Jason’s hair, only earning himself a smacked hand. 

Jay was incredibly intelligent and self-motivated with his homeschool work already, Bruce had no doubt he’d excel in a self-study program for a foreign language. 

They could always find him in-person classes, too. If that was something he wanted. 

Although the school he’d picked out did offer French, starting at 8th grade, when student picked their second language. 

“Learning a second language is a great idea,” he finally said. 

Jason looked at him like Bruce had just insulted his _mother._

“What?”

“French would be my fifth language.”

“ _Fifth,”_ Bruce said, with a touch of shock in his voice. Jason hadn’t _once_ led on that he knew anything other than English. 

Was English even his first language? English was his first language, right? There was no evidence otherwise. Nothing noted in any of his school records. State records. 

How did Bruce not _know_ this?

“Yeah,” Jason said, like it should have been painfully obvious to Bruce before that moment.

“What languages do you know?” _How_ _do you know four languages with less than a fourth grade education?_

“Well, Italian, Russian, and Spanish.” 

Three of the most common languages spoken on the street, Bruce immediately noted. Spanish was simply a common first or second language among Gothamites… Americans in general, and both Italian and Russian were spoken by prominent mobs in Gotham. 

Bruce felt a little sick thinking about _why_ Jason might know Italian or Russian. He asked, “Why those three,” anyway. 

“We learned Spanish at school,” Jason said, shrugging a little, “Or, well. They taught us how to count and say ‘house’ and shit. I thought it was cool so I studied it more.” 

“And Italian and Russian?”

“Needed to know what Falcone’s men were saying. And the Russian Mafia was pretty big, too.” 

Bruce _really_ didn’t want to ask. He didn’t. Because he didn’t want to know how involved in the mobs Jason had been. But… “Why?” 

Jason snorted and waved a hand, saying, “Can’t make deals with people without understanding all the shit they think they’re saying behind your back.” 

Fair point. “So how’d you learn them?”

“Mostly the library and following around the more talkative of their men around until I’d figured out most of what they were saying.” 

He’d _taught himself Russian?_ Even doing that with _Italian_ was incredibly impressive. 

“Jason,” he said, slowly, still a little in awe of this amazing kid, “I hope you know how brilliant you are,” after a beat, he added, “We’ll find a less dangerous way for you to learn French, though.”

Jason smiled brightly. 

“I know some French,” Damian said, trudging into the living room with his hair dripping wet, ‘comment ça va’ means ‘how are you.’” 

“Good job,” Bruce said, hopping up and slipping into the bedroom momentarily, just long enough to grab a dry towel. 

When he returned a second later and began drying Damian’s hair for him, Damian let out an indignant squawk and exclaimed, “Dad! Stop it.”

“Then dry your hair properly yourself,” he exasperated, dropping the towel on Damian’s head, only causing the boy to grumble more. 

“You’re the _worst,”_ Damian said, but did start to ruffle his hair with the towel, _kind of_ drying it properly. 

“Yes,” Jason said dryly, “Next he’ll try to feed you. Oh the horror.” 

“Shut up, Jason,” Damian grumbled, as he took the towel back to the bathroom. 

The boys bickered a little more while they waited for their breakfast to arrive, and Bruce let them. It always amused him how much like _brothers_ the two of them behaved. Even if Jason was _adamant_ about how they were merely ‘foster’ brothers. 

When their room service arrived, Bruce made the boys sit at the table and served all of them a little of everything. As a treat, he’d also ordered a whole carafe of chocolate milk, along side the orange juice and water, of course. 

Chocolate milk was _always_ a treat for him, as a kid. Alfred never allowed it in his house, because adding so much sugar to milk was ungodly. Or something. Bruce never particularly listened when Alfred went off about how terrible something was for him… 

Bruce never pointed out that hot chocolate was basically chocolate heated up. 

But they weren’t _in_ an Alfred-run house, at the moment.

He poured both the boys a glass, then himself one before he dug into the cheese omelette. Damian, also, started with his cheese omelette, while Jason went straight for the French Toast. 

His boys were so predictable.

“Is this _milk,”_ Damian exclaimed, looking down into the glass of chocolate milk he’d pulled closer to himself, “Father, how could you _order_ this?”

Right.

Damian was morally opposed to milk. 

He forgot. 

“What’s your problem with milk,” Jason said, before taking a long, loud sip of his own milk. 

Sometimes. Sometimes their brotherly bickering was _not_ cute. 

“It’s cow torture,” Damian screeched, “They make their milk for their babies, not for us!” It wasn’t often Damian got angry. Really, truly angry, but when he _did,_ heaven help everything in his path. 

Damian lifted his hand up, as if to backhand his _glass of milk,_ and Bruce finally snapped out of the daze he’d falling into when Damian started screaming. 

Launching forward, Bruce snatched the glass up, succeeding in not spilling _any_ of it anywhere. “Damian Wayne you better not have been about to knock this glass over.” 

All Damian did was scrunch his face at Bruce, and cross his arms.

“If you keep up the attitude, I’ll have Clark take you home and Alfred will have you scrubbing every single tile in the manor with a toothbrush.” 

Jason shoved a bite of French Toast in his mouth, clearly trying to use eating as a way not to burst out in laughter.

Damian just made a, ‘hmph,’ noise. 

“Look,” Bruce sighed. He really hated having to be all strict so early in the morning. 

Or ever. At all.

“You can be upset I forgot about you not drinking milk, but don’t take it out on the people who have to clean this suite. Or on our breakfast that doesn’t want to be drenched in chocolate milk, got it?” 

“Yeah,” Damian grumbled, sinking down in his chair a little further. 

“Okay,” Bruce said, sighing one less time, effectively releasing all his annoyance. He had to remind himself _constantly_ that Damian was six. He was six, didn’t have a fully developed brain, and was in essence a good kid. Getting annoyed with him for acting like a six-year-old did no one any good. “Do you want some orange juice instead?”

Damian mumbled out a quick, “Yes, please,” while avoiding eye contact with either Jason or Bruce. 

Once Bruce poured him a glass of orange juice and set it down, Damian took a small sip then picked up his fork to eat more of his cheese omelette. 

Jason, having been silent throughout Damian’s entire outburst, smiled in such a way that sent dread coiling down into Bruce’s stomach. He _knew_ that face. He _knew_ Jason was about to cause trouble. 

But he was absolutely helpless to stop it, because before he figured out a way to tell Jason ‘don’t you dare’ without making the boy scared Bruce would beat him, Jason opened his mouth and said, “You know, cheese is made from milk, right? Why is milk cow torture but cheese isn’t?” 

“Jason,” Bruce groaned. He and Alfred had _very specifically_ been avoiding that entire topic with Damian. For some God-forsaken reason, Selina had enabled and encouraged Damian’s research on animal treatment in some of the more despicable farms in the United States, and now it was _impossible_ to convince Damian that _some_ farms treated their animals well, and there was nothing wrong with drinking milk from those farms. Despite all the research Damian had done about cow treatment, he hadn’t done research on _what_ is made from milk.

They wanted to leave it like that for as long as humanly possible, because if Damian ended up going fully dairy free, Alfred was going to have to do a ton of research on what to make the boy. They’d both have to do a ton of research on diets and nutrition… 

And Bruce hated the thought Alfred might have to make Damian separate meals. Although he knew for a fact Alfred still put milk in things like mashed potatoes, that Damian always ate without fuss. 

Bruce rubbed at his temples and finally looked up at Damian, to see how the boy was taking the realization. He’d spit out his mouthful of omelette, which was just great. And had turned a slight shade of green. 

Great. Just, absolutely great. This was _wonderful._

Damian looked down at the remaining omelette and said, in horror, “I thought cheese was made from goats.” 

“Eww,” Jason whined, scrunching his face up in the most exaggerated display of disgust Bruce had ever seen, “What the heck? _Goats?_ That’s so gross.” 

All Bruce could do was sigh. 

He’d be researching dairy-free things soon, wouldn’t he?

Because as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just _lie_ to his kid. And he _did_ like that Damian was capable of critical thinking and was able to stick so strongly to his morals and beliefs. At the age of six. 

Didn’t make it any less frustrating, though. 

“You ate goat’s cheese last week, Jason” he said, a little pettily, he had to admit. Turning to Damian, he added, “Only goat’s cheese is made from goat’s milk. Most cheese comes from cow milk, though.” 

“I—“ Damian started, then simply pushed his plate away, a lot less angrily than Bruce expected. “I’d rather have French Toast.” 

“French toast has milk in it, too,” Jason said. 

“Jason,” Bruce whined, crossing his arms on the table and burying his face into them. 

He loved that kid, and he _adored_ Jason felt safe enough around him to be a major brat all the time, but sometimes… 

Sometimes Bruce wished he’d just _not._

“What?” Jason said, clearly through a mouthful of food, not that Bruce could see with his face still buried, “He deserves to know.”

“Does yogurt have milk?” Damian asked, and Bruce just resigned himself to moving more dairy free at home. He would not be surprised if Damian went full vegetarian, or even vegan, by the time he was ten. They’d _definitely_ need to start researching nutrition to make sure he got everything he needed. 

“Yep,” Jason said, clearly way too happy with himself, “the fruit is safe, though.” 

“Dad, can I have some fruit?” Damian asked, and Bruce sat up and handed Damian the bowl. 

There was no use in fighting it. 

Jason grinned cheekily at him, as he kept plowing away at his giant stack of French Toast, and Bruce just knew, this was only the _beginning_ of all the trouble Jason was going to cause. 

It was a good thing Bruce loved him.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all: there's no such thing as pointless  
> Me: oh yeah? Read this. xD 
> 
> Like I said in the summary, this was actually gonna be a chapter, but I cut it because it didn't _really_ further the plot of the story. It's cute though, and I adore cute, so I went ahead and wrote it anyway. 
> 
> And if you're going "WAIT BUT DAMIAN ATE A MILK SHAKE IN THE BEST THINGS!" Yep! I should probably write it eventually, but once Bruce brought the boys home, Alfred was like 'oh hail no, this has gone too far' and takes Damian to the local farm where he buys the majority of their animal products and let Damian judge for himself if the cows are treated properly. The owner offers to let Damian come over whenever he wants to 'play with the cows,' and he decides drinking milk from _those_ cows is okay, so Alfred makes ice cream from scratch just for Damian. :) He's such a good grandpa, and Damian is such a bleeding heart. I haven't decided if Damian eventually goes vegetarian in this series, anyway. We'll have to see as he gets older!


End file.
